


Toys and Tears

by TwistedViolets



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Hes Reggie’s favorite, Incest, Lots of dialogue, Luther is so sweet, Luther thinks he’s a big boy, Manipulation, Numbers as Names, Reggie does some questionable things, Reggie is a bad dad, Reggie lets Luther sleep in his bed, The first 800ish words is just bonding, family pictures, hes just a cry baby, i guess, luther centric, mainly Reggie forcing Luther to do a thing and realizing it’s disgusting, they bond I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:22:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21752170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistedViolets/pseuds/TwistedViolets
Summary: “Do you want to play a game?” His father whispers the question to him in a soft voice. One he reserves for their private times just between the two of them.Luther’s head poked up from underneath the blankets and he smiles a big beautiful smile. His father has never played games with anyone.He must be special...right?
Relationships: Luther Hargreeves/Reginald Hargreeves
Comments: 5
Kudos: 32





	Toys and Tears

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t really had a chance to check this over yet. I like the bonding but the ending nonconish stuff ruins all the fluff. I was thinking about just removing the ending but then I decided not to although it’d probably be better without it.

His face hurts and tears prick his eyes as he smiles as wide as he can. His siblings sit beside him and his father stands behind him while they get their picture painted.

It's a long process that just seems to drag on. It's so hard to stay still and smile because Four keeps whispering to Three and Three keeps giggling. It's distracting and annoying.

His lips twitch and his mouth dries up making his throat hurt with each swallow. His smile begins to falter and his father shoots daggers at him, not the same kind of daggers he shot his siblings but they were daggers nonetheless.

These daggers are more closely related to butter knives and their threatening appearance but nonlethal name.

He curls his lips back up into a small smile and the butter knife is removed from his back.

"You're all doing great," the painter coos while throwing a splash of black on the canvas. "Almost done!"

He's glad for that.

————————————————————

"What a cry baby," Two teases him, poking and prodding his face. He grins and laughs at the tears in his eyes.

"Don't laugh at me," he pouts, wiping at his eyes as pink tints his cheeks. "I am not a cry baby..."

"You are too!"

"I am not!"

"You cry every day."

He looks away and curls his hand into a fist before hitting Two, lightly. Two yelps in pain and flinches back. "That isn't true," he yells as Two curls a hand around his chest.

"Ouch!"

"Serves you right."

He looks away with a smile on his lips.

————————————————————

Outback his father takes him for their evening talk. It's never anything more than a moment of peace and quiet with the sound of birds and crickets surrounding them.

"Do you believe the picture to be a foolish idea?" His father asks him in that soft voice, the one that he rarely used with anyone else. It's only for him because he's a good boy and he's earned the right.

"No," he whispers as a breeze blows by and he scoots over, just a little. He enters his father's personal space but stops just before leaning against him.

His father hates cuddling and touching and just about anything sweet or sentimental. His father doesn't do emotions but that's okay. The nannies tell him all the time that everyone is different and you have to respect that.

His father looks upon him but makes no move to comfort him from the cold. He just stares and lets his eyes drift over him again and again.

"You are an emotion-fueled child," his father whispers against the wind, more to himself than him. But he does hear it and it hurts his heart in all the wrong ways.

"Is that bad?"

"There are seldom flaws worse than it."

"Sorry," he mumbles, his heart twisting in his chest again and again. "I just-"

"You are young," his father cuts him off while changing his attention to the stars. "I have no doubt you'll grow out of this unfortunate flaw."

He nods.

His father stands and dusts himself off before making his way to the doorway. There are no more words, nothing at all but the cold breeze howling at his ears.

He stands and runs to be at his father's side, he grasps a hand on his arm and tugs. "Can I stay in your room tonight?" He gives puppy eyes and tilts his head.

His father shrugs his hand off and continues to walk. "I'll consider it," his father said before disappearing into the darkened house.

————————————————————

He buries himself in his father's bed. He inhales the scent, the good, olden smell that engulfs the blankets. He snuggles underneath the covers as his father looks down at him with disgust.

"What kind of feral animal are you?"

He blushes, hard, embarrassment hitting him in the gut. Tears prick his eyes and he turns away. Is it so strange that this smell brings him comfort? Is it strange to be happy to be in this room when he's rarely permitted to?

"Sorry," he mumbled and his father just shakes his head.

He lays there, a clock ticking beside him while he stares up at the ceiling. His father takes off his overcoat and takes a seat at his desk. He opens up a journal and begins to write.

Silence grows, lead on paper is all he hears and he just watches. His father's hand moves in precise lines and he makes such beautiful words. 

He could never write that neatly.

"Aren't you going to sleep with me?" He asks, his voice barely comes out.

He receives no response.

His heart stutters and he blinks away tears. Of course, his father doesn't want to share a bed with him. He's a little disgusting child. 

His father doesn't like those. 

"In due time," his father finally says, giving him a small wave, brushing him off.

He nods and turns around. He closes his eyes and listens to the sound of writing. It lolls him to sleep.

————————————————————

He awakens to cold. He buries himself underneath the covers and shivers as his eyes adjust to the darkness. It takes a minute but it happens.

The bed is empty.

He turns around and there is his father, his head in his hand, laying on the desk. His eyes are closed, his breathing is even and the journal is closed.

He sits upright, slowly, cringing at the terrible creak the bed makes. He grasps a blanket and tiptoes over to his father and slowly drapes it around his shoulders.

He wouldn't want him to catch a cold.

He walks back to bed and sleeps underneath the remaining blanket. His father doesn't move.

————————————————————

He blinks up at the daylight pouring in from the windows. The warmth and comfort are welcomed. He blinks before stifling a yawn.

His father throws the blanket at him and the sudden darkness gives him a sense of claustrophobia.

"Do you want to play a game?" his father whispers the question to him in that same sweet soft voice. The one he reserves for their private times just between the two of them.

He pokes his head up from underneath the blankets and smiles a big beautiful smile. His father had never played games with anyone.

Games are stupid, games aren't productive. They never play games.

"I want to!" He says, kicking the blankets aside before crawling down the bed. His father sits in his chair, facing him, rubbing a hand over his goatee. 

"I don't know," his father says, turning away in what looks like sadness. "You might be too small for this game. It's an adult game..."

"I'm not too small!" He informs him cheerfully, placing a hand against his chest and puffing it out. "I'm really strong..."

He is really strong. He has to be careful when drinking out of glasses and he has to be careful when roughhousing. If he isn't careful he could hurt someone.

"I know," his father says with a twist of his wrist. He extends it out and cups his chin before leaning in slightly. "I still don't believe you're ready."

A red flash hits him, flaring up his heart. He glares as he grinds his teeth almost instinctively. He isn't a crybaby, he can handle a grown-up game.

"I want to play," he growls out until his father gives him a glare and his anger disappears.

"Good boys don't speak with that tone," he corrects him with a small pinch of his arm. He looks away while a red spot forms on his skin.

"The game," he said, grasping his father's arm again. It's immediately thrown off.

"I don't play with unruly children."

"But-"

"But nothing."

Tears well up in his eyes and his heart constricts as the opportunity begins to disappear. This is it, this is his only  
chance to become closer with his father and he blew it.

He starts to sob.

"I'm sorry," he cries, wiping at his eyes again and again. "I'm so sorry! I'll be good I promise."

His father gives him a satisfied look as he sits down beside him. "You promise?" 

He nods his head again and again while small blubbering sobs leave his lips. He clenches his nails in his palm as he hiccups.

"Stop your tears," his father says, letting his fingertips wipe away some of his tears. "I'll play with you."

"Really?"

His father pulls on the end of his shirt gently. "First you've got to get undressed," he says it like it's nothing.

He takes off his shirt because it is nothing. "Is this a bath game?" He asks with new energy as his sobs fade away. 

"No."

He stands and removes his pants next, as he gives his father a questioning glance. "Then why do I have to be naked? It's cold."

"No complaining."

He slips out of his boxers and smiles as his eyes slowly stop being puffy. He stands there in all his naked glory and for a moment just basks in the freedom. It isn't like they were allowed to do this normally.

His father though just looks at him in a weird way. A very, very strange way...then it turns to disappointment.

He gets afraid, so afraid that he's messed something up. "What's wrong?" He asks, placing a hand over his chest, suddenly self-conscious.

His father shakes his head and stands up. He turns the other direction. "Get dressed."

"What about the game?" His voice is laced with hurt.

His father faces him and leans down with a grin on his lips. "Stop being a crybaby One."

It hurts to be called that. It hurts so much that tears prick his eyes all over again. 

He gets dressed slowly, his father doesn't look at him. "I'm sorry," it's all his fault they can't play this game. 

"If you hurry we can go to the park," His father keeps his eyes adverted.

He smiles and slips into his pants.

"I like the park."

His father just frowns without giving any more recognition.


End file.
